by Josh Lanyon
He had been frightened and reluctant to help me search for the grimoire. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts.
After all, I didn’t know that it was Oliver who had tried to summon me. I had guiltily assumed that because I had failed to meet him. After the attack, I had changed my mind and figured a trap had been laid and I had been lured into it. But there was a third possibility. That Oliver had gone to the Creaky Attic, been attacked himself, and had cried out to me for help.
The idea made me feel a little queasy, because if that was the case, I had failed Oliver completely.
Wasn’t that more likely than the coincidence that I had been drawn to the store by someone else—someone unaware that a visit to the Creaky Attic was already on my night’s itinerary? Someone who wanted me there for a very different purpose.
To kill me.
Because…why?
That’s what I kept coming back to.
Even if Maman’s talk of secret societies was true and Seamus had been killed in order to procure the Grimorium Primus, why would I be a target? Yes, I was also looking for the grimoire, but it wasn’t like I was having any great success. I could hardly be considered an obstacle. If anything, my wish to live a normal, ordinary mortal life was in keeping with the objectives of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.
In fact, you would think I would be the last witch on the planet they’d be out to get.
But someone was. Someone wanted me dead. And the sooner, the better.
Chapter Fifteen
I was trying to reach Rex—and only getting their answering machine—when I arrived at my townhouse on Carson Street and found a welcoming committee of two: Sergeants Kolchak and Iff.
“We were beginning to think you’d pulled another vanishing act,” Kolchak greeted me.
“I wasn’t aware I’d pulled any vanishing act.” I disconnected my call and felt my pockets for my keys. I hoped I had them. I’d fallen back into the bad habit of not using them all the time. That would of course stop once I was married. The ability to regularly bypass a home security system would be awkward to explain.
“Are you sure this is your domicile?” Iff was inquiring at the very moment I finally found my fob.
“Ha.” I dangled the keys in triumph and unlocked the door. I gestured for them to enter.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” Kolchak assured me. “We just have—”
He broke off. For a moment they stared in silence at the wreckage. Iff whistled.
“Should we call it in?” Kolchak asked. “Or did you do this in a fit of rage?”
“Believe it or not, I have a system.” I crossed the room and pulled the drapes. Sunshine flooded the room. It did not help.
Kolchak said wonderingly, “Yeah, no, I don’t believe it.”
Iff said, “Speaking of tornados, someone wrecked Reitherman’s shop last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“No.” After John had left me, I had done a forgetting spell on the building to remove my fingerprints and a forgetting spell on the street to remove my image from any stray security cameras. Such spells were less reliable on inanimate objects; I hoped that attempt to cover my tracks would be enough.
“I’ve got people coming any minute to help me pack before the movers arrive, so what did you want to ask me?”
Kolchak was recalled to business. He took out his little brown notebook. He flipped through the pages, making faces as he read. I tried to control my exasperation.
He said at last, “To start with, we’re having trouble verifying your movements on Thursday night. As a matter of fact, we’re having trouble verifying your movements at any time.”
“I don’t follow.”
“And neither can anyone else.”
They were gazing at me steadily, meaningfully. I wasn’t sure—was he suggesting that SFPD had put a tail on me? Or did he mean something else?
I said, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt, “I’m not sure I understand.”
Iff said, “For example, how did you arrive here? We didn’t see any car pull up. You just came walking down the street, seemingly out of nowhere.”
“I don’t understand the question. Am I in trouble for choosing to travel on foot?”
“On foot from where, though?”
“What does it matter? What am I suspected of now? Jaywalking?”
Kolchak put up a hand like the traffic cop he no doubt wanted to avoid being demoted to. “Okay. Fair enough. We’ll leave the subject of your movements this morning and return to the subject of your movements Thursday night.”
I tried to keep my expression pleasant, but I was a yoctosecond from a Vincent Price shriek à la 1974’s Madhouse. “Sure. What did you want to know?”
“You claim you arrived by Uber at the Creaky Attic around twelve o’clock.”
“Correct. I can’t pin my ETA any closer than that. I know I was running late.”
“Right. The problem we’re running into is we can’t find any record of any Uber driver delivering a fare to that part of town within a two-hour window of your, as you put it, ETA.”
Iff said, “We even expanded our window to three hours, but no luck.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“We don’t either.”
Kolchak said, “We thought, maybe given the stress of the evening, you were confused about the details of your ride, so we checked with Lyft, and no luck there either.”
“I…”
“And then we got curious, so we checked with the cab companies and the private shared-ride vans and shuttle services and Muni and Muni Metro. I guess we could start looking at cable cars and trolleys, but I don’t think we’re going to find anything, do you?”
My heart was pounding so hard, I was surprised they couldn’t hear it. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what it is you’re hoping to find.”
“Well, it started out we just wanted to verify when you arrived at Reitherman’s store. But the inability to track your movements does raise a few flags.”
“I was there. Obviously.”
“Yep.”
“The officers arrived within minutes of my finding Seamus.”
“That’s how it looked,” Kolchak agreed.
“My clothes and my person were free of any bloodstains. I had no bruises or cuts or nicks or any injuries that would have resulted from a fight. Were my fingerprints on the ath—knife?”
“Nope. But there were no fingerprints on the knife, so that doesn’t mean anything. The knife was wiped.”
“I don’t know what you want from me. I didn’t kill Seamus. It happened exactly as I describe. I walked in and found him dead. Why would I kill him? What motive could I possibly have?”
Iff said promptly, “Long-standing enmity.”
The archenemies thing again. I groaned. “Is that really a motive? Even if it were true, why would I choose now of all times to kill him? Why would I wait years, until I’m marrying the police commissioner? I had nothing to gain by his death.”
“Now, see, that’s an interesting point,” Kolchak said. “We kept hanging up on that too. But according to Mrs. Reitherman, her husband had a very valuable antique book in his possession. According to her, her husband said you’d do nearly anything to get your hands on that book. And, coincidentally, the book is missing.”
Iff said, “Another interesting—if you want to call it that—point is this is a book about witchcraft and the occult.”
“She…told you that?” I couldn’t believe it. Was Ciara out of her fucking mind? To speak of Craft matters to law enforcement? I wasn’t sure how it worked in the buidseachd, but in the Abracadantès, it was more than enough to get her “burned,” i.e., excommunicated. In any tradition it would surely be enough to bring down severe censure.
“So there’s your motive,” Kolchak said. “No, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to us, but we’re not the type of guys who spend our free time reading books on witchcraft and sorcery.”
&n
bsp; This was going to go into their reports—it was probably already there, a fact of record for SFPD’s finest to wonder and gawk over. There was a very good chance John had already seen it. No question Sergeant Pete Bergamasco had seen it and would report it to John.
I realized they were waiting for me to say something. I pulled myself together.
“I would have paid anything for the book, yes. Which is why Seamus offered it to me first. It was understood that if it was authentic, he would get his price, whatever it was. But I would not have killed him for it.”
For one thing, I wouldn’t have had to. If Seamus had demanded a fee beyond my reach, I would have had the buying power of the entire Société du Sortilège behind me. I wasn’t unwise enough to point that out, but it was the truth. Even if I were capable of murder, there was no scenario in which I would have had to resort to such drastic and complicated measures.
They continued to regard me without expression, without comment.
What were they waiting for? They seemed to believe they had enough to arrest me. So why didn’t they?
“I didn’t kill him,” I repeated. “I don’t know what else I can say. I’m not your guy.”
The doorbell rang.
Nothing from Iff and Kolchak.
Sweat broke out on my hairline, my underarms. I knew they were on the very cusp of hauling me in for a more formal interrogation—and yet something made them hesitate. Something I had said.
Or something I had not said.
What?
I had no idea what. Instead, I forced myself to act as I would if I was innocent, which, ironically, I was—at least of what they suspected me.
I said briskly, “That’s my friends. Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”
Iff and Kolchak exchanged another of those looks-without-looking-at-each-other. It was the kind of silent communication you saw in old married couples. Maybe one day John and I would be able to read each other’s minds without looking at each other.
Not if these two had anything to say about it.
Kolchak relaxed, shook his head. “I think that’ll do for now.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Iff said, and opened the door.
“Sorry I’m late!” Jinx said, and then, “Oh. Hey. Hi.”
“Miss Galbraith,” Kolchak said.
They stepped past her, Jinx entered, gazing over her shoulder at them.
“Who’s the gruesome twosome?”
“Homicide detectives.”
“They can’t think—” She stared past me in horror. “Oh, Cos. They searched your place?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so. I’ve been trying to get things ready for the movers.”
She spluttered with laughter. “U R Doin’ it wrong,” she said cheerfully, and breezed into the living room.
“Don’t close the door,” Blanche called. Slightly out of breath, she appeared on the landing with a bemused-looking Ambrose in tow. “This was a good call, Cos. Until this whole murder investigation gets cleared up, I don’t know what we’re going to do. Most of the customers we’re getting are lookie-loos. We haven’t taken in more than two hundred dollars since you were arrested.” She added uncomfortably, “I saw the detectives on the stairs.”
“I wasn’t with them, so that’s the good news.”
“Yes.”
“John’s not going to let Cos be arrested.” Jinx was busily taking down several small gold-framed 1930s silhouettes. “Cos, do you have a box for these?”
“Uh…yes. Just a sec.” I got Jinx a box, started Blanche and Ambrose packing up the kitchen, and by then Andi had arrived.
“The Creaky Attic was ransacked last night,” she whispered after waving hello to Jinx. Jinx smiled tightly back.
“I know,” I whispered. “I was there looking for the, er, GP.”
Her eyes went wide. “You…”
“Goddess no. Of course not. Someone tried to…stop me.”
“Stop you?”
“Kill me.”
She sucked in a breath. “Who?”
“I don’t know. I think someone used a summoning spell.”
“You think?”
“Well, it felt more like a psychic shout would. I think. I’m not sure. Except for practice in school, no one’s ever summoned me.”
“Mm. Good point. Have you reported it?”
“Yes. Well, I told my mother. Same thing.”
“Not always,” Andi said wryly.
“True.”
She glanced past me to Jinx, who was studiously ignoring us. “What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing. It’s…it’s under control.”
“I mean here, you goof. This is not remotely under control. Where do you want me to start?” She added under her breath, “And the other is not remotely under control either.”
“Could you start with my bedroom?”
She nodded.
I stepped out onto the small balcony facing the apartments across the way to check if by any chance John had phoned.
There was no call and no text since his increasingly irate texts the day before. My heart shriveled a little as I stared at his final message.
I’M LOSING PATIENCE.
This was never going to work.
As much as I loved him, as much as I was willing to do anything—almost anything—to keep his love—whatever smidgen of that I still had—there were too many circumstances outside my control.
I couldn’t change my very nature. And the truth was, I wouldn’t if I could.
And yet the thought of not having John in my life was unthinkable. Even trying to imagine the hole in my life his leaving would create felt like an unsurvivable injury.
That was selfish, right?
For John’s sake, I should end it—take the pressure, the onus, off him. Why should he have to be driven to the breaking-it-off point? Why should he have to be the bad guy?
But John’s reasons for going ahead with the marriage despite everything were valid. I would be a good husband to him. We would make a good team. I did bring a lot of assets to the table. It wasn’t all double trouble, toil and…well, however it went, with me.
No, if John wanted out, he would have to cut the cord. I simply did not have that strength of will. I loved him too much. Or maybe not enough.
I clicked out of messages and phoned Ralph.
“Cosmo.” I could hear the relief in his usually smooth baritone. “Thank goodness you got my message. I owe you a sincere apology. I should never have urged you to hire the Jones boy without having done some checking first.”
I always think of Ralph as unfazeable, so his distress startled me. “Is there a problem?”
“A rather serious one, I’m afraid.”
I was afraid too, remembering Maman’s description of young disenfranchised witches being fooled and manipulated into helping the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm. Ambrose was untrained, but the power humming inside that wiry frame would inevitably find an outlet.
It occurred to me Ralph was the one person I knew, witch or mortal, most likely to have knowledge of the SPMMR. If such an organization did really exist, Ralph would know. He might even have insight into their operation.
Ralph was saying, “Ambrose Jones has a criminal record. Well, a juvenile record.”
“Oh.” And proof of how upside down my life was, I actually relaxed. “For what?”
“Theft. Which is why, despite the fact that it occurred a while ago, I feel obliged to bring it to your attention. He stole money—a fair bit of cash, as it turns out—from a previous employer.”
Okay, yes, that was a problem.
“I see. You said this happened when he was a teen?”
“Yes. And I don’t doubt there were some…perhaps not extenuating circumstances, but some reason behind his actions. The troubling thing is his lack of remorse or willingness to make any restitution.”
“He doesn’t exactly seem like a hardened criminal.”
“I
agree. I think the boy deserves another chance, but I can’t help feeling that Blue Moon, where he would be working with cash—sometimes temptingly large sums—might not be a good fit.”
“Possibly not.” I was noncommittal. “But the main reason you sent him to me was your feeling he needed a mentor in matters relating to the Craft. Or at least someone who could offer some practical advice.”
“That’s true. But there again, I feel I wasn’t fair to you. You’ve made an effort to distance yourself from the Craft, and your life is, well, a little tumultuous at the moment. The last thing you need is the added responsibility of this youngster.”
I suddenly wondered if Ralph was more worried about my shady influence on Ambrose than Ambrose’s hand in my till.
“That’s true. But the kid needs a job pretty desperately.”
“He does. And I’ve been thinking about that. Whatever his past mistakes, he’s smart and hardworking. I’ve been thinking I could use a research assistant. This might be a way of killing two birds with one stone.”
Through the glass doors I could see that Ambrose had left the kitchen and was now in the living room with Jinx. They were laughing as they examined my CDs and stacked them in a box. Apparently, my taste in music had them in stitches.
“There’s something else,” Ralph said, and I could tell by his tone there was something else, something worse. “I hesitate to bring it up because it’s partly hearsay, but…I do think you should be warned.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Ambrose interviewed with Seamus on the afternoon of Seamus’s…murder.”
“Interviewed for…?”
“A job at the Creaky Attic. Seamus declined to hire him. That part is fact. Apparently, Ambrose does not take rejection well. He threw a fit—thankfully, the ordinary human kind—and threatened to burn the store.”
“I…see.”
“Which, frankly, sounds out of character, but this comes from a completely reliable source. And while the Creaky Attic was not burned down, Seamus was killed. And the store was wrecked last night. I’m not sure if you’re aware of that last.”
“Yes. I heard. Well, that’s certainly not good news.”
“No. I would say not.”
At the start of our conversation, I had intended to ask Ralph if he had ever heard of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm, but now I hesitated. Nothing Ralph had said seemed suspicious per se, and yet…
